A Tribute To Him
by adomaniccatnerd
Summary: They'd spent their time with him enshrouded in his kindness. And now that he was gone, they didn't know what to do. Stan Lee carried a simple name and a familiar face, and it felt far too early to say goodbye. A tribute to one the century's greatest heroes. AU.
1. Steve

**This was... spontaneous.**

 **I haven't posted anything in months, and yet here I am, with a barely sketched story and the promise of tears lingering in my eyes. It's really something, huh?**

 **I found out this morning, while getting ready for school. The man who gave me my childhood, who gave me the best memories I've ever made and who gave me a best friend, is gone. He showed me that I was okay - that someone like me, angry and guarded, was allowed to exist and still save the world. He gave me Tony Stark, who I think of every day, and he showed me what it truly is to write, to _feel_ a story's power within you. He's made me belive in possibilities and sciec]nce and magic.**

 **It's only fair I do something in return.**

 **In this AU, Stan Lee wasn't just a cameo, he was _there._ And the Avengers knew him. And they miss him. I really hope the story works out, because, like Tony, I'm not good with feelings unless I can channel them.**

 **Cheers, Mr. Lee. Your light will never fizzle out.**

 **Disclaimer: I only own the plot**

* * *

 **Steve**

 _"I'm sorry to inform you that Mr. Lee is gone."_

Steve had been the only one not to cry.

How could he, when he was a soldier, a man out of time, a man who had gone under and come back to find everyone dead?

People had died back in '45. Steve called them _people,_ not _soldiers,_ because soldiers unquestioningly took orders, took jeers and punishments, took lives, and that had been him. Him, the skinny kid with a dead family and nothing else to lose. The rest wrote letters and poems, sung their dreams of kinder days to come; even stood up to Peggy when the day was especially hard. Human, every last one of them, the way Steve had desperately tried to be, the way he hoped he was now that he could speak without being jeered at and called _pansy._

Though some had ridiculed him, and others had gone as far as to hurt him, Steve had cried when the first few died. He had cried because he knew their sweethearts' names, and because all that was left of them was a meager tribute and yellow piece of paper that never, not once in Steve's memory, came laden with good news.

But then the deaths tallied up. Some bodies came back, others were burned and mutilated by Nazis. And slowly, _slowly,_ Steve learned to stop crying.

He certainly didn't cry now.

For the first time in years, he didn't know the person who had delivered the news. Normally news came from Maria, or Fury, or, more often, Coulson, but today he couldn't place a name to the unfamiliar face. Ginger. Steely, deep sea eyes like his own, and thin, pressed lips. A S.H.I.E.L.D. agent in every sense of the word, clad in tough boots and a pristine shirt. If telegrams could be people, this man would be the perfect candidate.

The man remained for a few minutes, left, and Steve only had his thoughts.

 _Stan._ Stan was another Bucky, a man who had made it past the war and into the new world, and he'd done so marvelously. Steve knew him from the barracks, and Stark knew him from his childhood, and five years ago, when Stark had brought in a frail stick of a man with snowy hair and called him _Stan,_ the latter had been the first to put two and two together. Unlike Steve, Stan had aged, _properly,_ and he had a lovely wife and two daughters and his deep-set wrinkles to prove it. Still had the same smile, made the same outrageous jokes, told the same magnificent stories. Steve had reeled at the sight of him, but he had been thankful, and all those years he'd dedicated to catching up comprised some of his best memories.

Sat down now , he did, absently turning on the television. Trying not to get lost in grief, because he knew he'd never be able to show it, and it would eat him up for God knew how long. He flicked through channels, trying to ignore the tinny shouts of _StanStanStan_ reverberating in his mind.

Steve knew, better than most people, that life ended, even for him. It was a fact people tried time and again to disprove, only to fail while doing so. Stan had only been added to a never ending list.

Steve kept changing the channels.

There were thousands of them in this TV. A miracle that still bowled him over. But his personal list only had fifty or so, and most of them of them were news channels. He couldn't stomach movies - unless they were fantasies. Anything that looked realistic took him too far back, to alley fights and grainy black-and-white pictures.

Thirty-five news channels, Steve now counted. For sports, for the weather, for celebrities; even for animals.

And not a single one discussing Stan.

Steve's left arm twitched.

 _He's not famous. They wouldn't know._

That was wrong. Stan - brave, hilarious Stan - posed with the Howling Commandos in every one of their photographs. Hundreds had him to thank for their freedom today.

 _The media's never kind. They want a tragedy; a disaster. Stan was neither of those._

He had weathered a _war._ The most destructive battle in history and he'd survived with enough left of his heart to fall in love. He had kept making the same outrageous jokes and telling the same bizarre tales. It was not tragic, but it was beautiful, as death should be.

 _He'd be happy that you cared. Probably didn't want some ridiculous media storm. Even_ you _hate being on TV. Why should your old friend be any different?_

Now his mind was definitely stretching. Stan had _always_ been different. He'd been a man who revelled in daydreams and fantasies, who'd envisioned other worlds in the midst of throwing grenades. He didn't cry, either, but he knew how to feel, how to _mourn._ Even those who had mocked Stan had come to respect him in the end.

He wasn't a cocoa-haired boy with taut muscles and a mischievous grin. Nor was he the wispy breath of a man who heaved when he stood too long. He was _Stan Lee,_ outrageous and extravagant and caring, with an imagination wilder than words, who laughed too hard and never spent a second he regretted.

And he deserved, more than any adorable animal, or flustered celebrity, to be celebrated.

Steve's chest grew warm. Suffocating. His arms twitched. A drum was beating somewhere behind his eyes.

 _Punching bag. You need one._

The warehouse he used was only a couple minutes away.

Steve wasted no time. He hung the first one up like clockwork, the ache inside him burning brighter, angrier.

A small _thud_ reached his ears at the first punch.

The way he'd erupted into erratic hiccups, the way he'd hugged Steve when he first saw him. He'd been wearing sunglasses - borrowed from Tony, no doubt - and his hair had flown in the November wind.

 _Thud._ Louder now.

The Fourth of July. Firecrackers and cake, and he and Stan and Bucky had laughed and talked about old times. They were indoors, away from the fireworks everyone else celebrated, because every sparkling burst sounded too much like the aftermath of an explosion.

 _Thud, thud, thud._

The soft embers in his eyes when he introduced his wife, Joan, and the raging fire when she'd died four years later.

 _Thud, thud._ Neighbours would start asking questions.

Screw their questions.

 _Thud, thud, thud._

Stan wouldn't be forgotten, not as long as Steve was around to be pissed about it. He'd keep Stan alive, somehow. In photographs and cards, in his and Bucky's stories.

But for now, he'd throw punches until his knuckles grew numb. He'd let the grief eat away.

* * *

 **Was it worth the time? I'll be updating daily, until I'm through with the original six, and maybe I'll consider doing others, who knows. Just mourn, or tell me what you think.**

 **Thanks for reading. Love, Mariam**


	2. Tony

**Thank you to those who jumped onto this so quickly. Here's Tony - I hope he's been done right.**

* * *

 **Tony**

"Sir, there is a man waiting outside the door."

"I'm kind of in the middle of a technological breakthrough, J.A.R.V.I.S. Do I really want to see this guy?"

"His appearance leads me to believe he is from S.H.I.E.L.D., sir."

Tony flicked his eyes up, looking at nothing in particular. He couldn't exactly settle his gaze on a disembodied voice, so he aimed north, where he knew speakers were embedded in the walls.

"Are you messing with me, buddy?"

"My programming does not allow me to lie to you, sir."

"That's what I like to hear."

Tony moved away from the workbench; joints cracking as blood rushed back into his legs. Ideally, he'd have cleaned up the mess of gears and blueprints on his desk right then. Maybe shed his stained shirt. But the guy was currently bearing a New York winter, and the last time Tony had left a guy like that waiting, it hadn't ended well at all.

' _If it's anything ridiculous',_ he promised himself, climbing the stairs, ' _I'll tell him to walk into the nearest pole.'_

Two more minutes, and he was at the front gate, face falling into the suave smirk he was so famous for. Eyes glowing with the brightest _screw off_ he could muster. The middle of _November,_ for God's sake; there definitely weren't any villains around - they were all dead or jailed or sleeping, like the rest of the Northern hemisphere.

Before he could tell J.A.R.V.I.S. to open the door, though, a resonant _click-click-click_ startled him. He turned to find Pepper making her way over, only barely more presentable than him. Tony regarded her with surprise.

"So, is there a party I don't know about, or..?"

Pepper's own eyebrows furrowed. "I thought _you_ knew. J.A.R.V.I.S. told me to come here."

"None the wiser, sorry." Tony looked at Pepper's choice of clothing again. "Is the outfit some new trend, by the way?"

"I'd ask the same about yours."

"Well, _I'm_ wearing the same shirt I wear everyday, and _you're_ wearing a Christmas sweater with heels. _In_ November, might I add."

"How about we don't talk about it?"

"I'm just saying, Pep-"

"J.A.R.V.I.S., please open the door."

"Right away, madam."

And when the door swung open, they were greeted by the type of man Tony hated most: the _Howard_ type. Straight-backed and cold and serious. Tony wanted him to screw off right there. But the S.H.I.E.L.D. crest was there, right where Tony didn't want to see it.

"Can I help you?" he asked, coldly.

"I don't intend to disturb you, Mr. Stark-"

"Ah!" Tony grinned. "Perfect! Because, I'm sure you know, it's not very polite to barge into a mansion-"

The man's steely eyes - periwinkle blue fronted by shaggy crimson - not unlike Pepper's - didn't flicker. Didn't even blink.

"Mr. Stark, I am sorry to inform you that Mr. Lee is dead. Yesterday, late into the night."

Pepper gasped. Her eyes misted over. Hand cupped against her lips.

Tony slammed the door shut.

* * *

 _His collar felt stiff against his neck. His wrist chafed. The buttons were tight; suffocating, but his dad wanted them that way. He called it being presentable._

 _Tony was meeting a new man today, his dad promised. A man who'd been Steve's friend, and that made him special, apparently, just like anything else related to big-headed Steve and all his bullshit._

 _Tomy hated the man already._

 _He arrived late, to begin with, all flustered and crazed and red, and Howard treated it like it was_ nothing. _Like anyone in this house got away with a lack of punctuality. His hair was salt-and-pepper, his suit just a little too large and his stature one of a man who had once been tall. Wrinkles forced his forehead to sag, and his teeth were always flashed at someone._

 _At least, Tony thought, poised on the couch, he was a notch above his dad's usual friends._

 _The man circled around the room, laughing with Howard, with Maria, even with Edwin, which was a new one._

 _And then he got to Tony._

" _Well, look at you, my boy! The spitting image of your dad!"_

 _Shut up, Tony wanted to say. I hate my dad._

 _Instead he gave a small smile, lent his hand, and said, "Great to meet you, Mr. Lee."  
_ Lee _, Howard had reminded him._ Stan Lee.

" _Wonderful to make your acquaintance, Tony! So, tell me, what interests you these days?"  
Another typical question. Tony's answer rolled right off his tongue._

" _I like aerodynamics and computer science."_

 _That was what everyone just_ loved _to hear from Howard Stark's boy. Worked every time. The guy would nod, and smile, and go on his merry way, and Tony could get back to working on his computer._

" _Come on now, don't give me any of that crap."_

 _Tony stared. Gawped, really,_

" _You're_ ten, _my boy. You don't have to be all figured out just because you're genius. Come on. Tell me dinosaurs or something."_

 _Tony felt something he hadn't in a while. A warm, certain feeling encasing his heart. Fleeting, but there._

 _Howard walked by. Raised an eyebrow._

" _About time someone got a proper smile out of you."_

* * *

Tony wanted to shower. He didn't want to move. He wanted to forget. Wanted to remember everything.

Lovely, life was. A confusing series of conflicted wants. If Tony found what he wanted, he'd crack the secret to life; he was sure of it.

He felt twenty-one again. The same disbelief, the same loneliness that had burrowed deep within and made him chase after girls and booze.

 _Stan's dead._

Stan. Mr. Stan, Uncle Stan, and later on Stanley and now just _Stan,_ plain and simple. The only Stan he knew. No longer there.

The Stan who had nursed him through neglect and angry fits, the Stan who had pleaded with Howard to pay more attention, the Stan who had insulted Steve just to make Tony laugh. The Stan who had tried, unflinchingly laboured, to fix Howard's mistakes, and forgave Tony when he turned out to be a piece of shit anyways.

That Stan was gone.

Tony refused it. He was here just _last week,_ for God's sake, drinking pints and telling Pepper of all the things Tony used to make as a kid, complete with emphatic gestures and old men's laughter. How could he be gone?

Tony stood up. Paced around. Reminding himself, _people die and his hair was white. People die, just like Mom and Dad._

 _Just like Mom and Dad._

No, _not_ like Mom and Dad. Easily twice the man Howard Stark ever was, his strong, radiant heart making up for what intelligence he lacked. Better than Edwin and his parents combined, because he was _honest,_ not like how a doctor was honest, but like how your best friend was honest; carrying all the advice and none of the snark.

Stan had nurtured him, been kind to him and believed in him. For no reason. In Pepper's same, unbelievable fashion, all he needed was Tony's health ensured. He wanted nothing else - not even a gift or good grades.

Stan, now a gone blessing.

Pepper found Tony pretty quickly. He was underground, as usual, trying to lose himself in metal and wires. His fiancee's eyes were red-rimmed and glazed. Drowning in sorrow, yet beautiful in their demise. Tony wanted to focus on them instead of himself.

"You've got to talk about, Tony." Pepper crossed her arms, giving him her most imploring gaze. " _Please._ Don't keep it in. Say anything. Please."

Tony's hands started shaking. Chest heaving.

"I-I could have noticed the symptoms-"

"No, _no,_ Tony. You're not a doctor."

"But, Rhodey's legs, I could have given him the same thing, it would have _helped him-_ "

Pepper strode over to him. Cupped his chin in both her hands. Her stained skin and bitten fingers gorgeous; not because they looked so, but because it meant she could do something about her feelings. She too could tinker them away.

"Tell me about him, Tony. What was he like?"

"He- he was my second dad."

And they hugged each other, and Tony shook and wept and Pepper held him together, crying silent tears, and Tony learned what it meant to share.

* * *

 **I like my ending... a lot, actually. It feels realistic, kinda reassuring. Tell me what you think, if you wanna. Tomorrow, it'll be Nat.**

 **Love, Mariam**


	3. Natasha

**Hello people!**

 **First of all, i know I promised daily updates. It's been a hectic finals week, and I've barely had time to rest - but I've got a nice, long chapter to make up for it.**

 **Second of all, FINALS. TWO PER DAY HELP.**

 **Third, Natasha is tricky to write. Unlike the rest, who wear their hearts on their sleeves, Natasha keeps hers tucked away tight and ignores her problems. So it was a little hard writing an accurate character.**

 **However, I hope you like the chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who followed and reviewed - you mean the world to me,**

* * *

Natasha was, as was customary, working.

Not outside, though. Not today. No creaking staircases or abandoned warehouses or derelict cities. Not even a plane would be involved.

 _S.H.I.E.L.D. could do better than this._

A goddamn _laptop_ , of all things. She was stuck assessing - staring at bleak, grainy footage, over and over again, predicting people's movements and motives. As if she couldn't do better - _much_ better - than that.

She appreciated it, truly. Fury getting involved and assigning her baby work every now and then; giving her a moment to breathe. It was hectic business, always acting and shooting and extracting, and men who did the same things for too long aged like Rogers and Barnes, bored and distrusting.

 _But,_ Natasha whispered to herself, in fervent Russian _, I'm not a man, or any woman. I could do more than this_.

The apartment she occupied was despicable - not through carelessness, but rather through neglect. Natasha only came here in the dead of the night, when black was infused into everything and all she had to do was fall into bed. Often, she was so spread out across the world that a place to call home was barely a blip in her mind; a convenience but not a necessity. Now, her boss had stuck her here and she was too pissed off to do anything about it.

The video replayed once more, automatically. Frankly, Natasha found it below her pay grade: the usual, everyday murder, complete with gunshots and tarp to cover the bodies. SH.I.E.L.D. were worried only by the location - a greasy, lonely apartment where a now-deceased agent had once lived. Kane was his name; Sammy Kane, and he had died of natural causes three years back, after an impressive twenty-year career at his organization.

So Natasha wasn't surprised to find that the man in the video had hair shot with silver, and practiced, sudden movements as he dragged the victims - a young couple - away. Skilled, but self-taught; lacking the discipline that festered in trained recruits. Furious, clearly, aiming, shooting, and cleaning erratically, as anxious as he was quick.

Natasha had the list pinned down to three suspects - all people whose families had been killed by Kane. It only took her two hours. It was _editing_ the video that had taken her days. Not to mention infiltrating the building security to access more footage. S.H.I.E.L.D. normally had technicians do that, so that their intelligence could focus on the real work. Natasha suspected Fury had instructed them to send the unedited version. More time for his number-one fighter to relax.

 _Well, mission accomplished_. Natasha _was_ relaxing, now wrapped in the knowledge that she was done with this stupid job. Natasha wanted out, back in the field, where she could convince herself it was work that kept her lonely, not her aversion to humanity.

Two hours till midnight. She should get some sleep. Maybe show up early at work and scare Fury out of his wits. He deserved it, for throwing her into something like this.

Natasha stretched, feeling her muscles ache as she finally abandoned the laptop screen. The silence that ensued when she at last folded the laptop away dominated the room; air thick with its barely perceptible whispers. Time and time again, Natasha imagined they were the dead, _her_ dead, speaking of curses and hatred. She certainly remembered enough of them to fill this room.

But then she strode into the bedroom, her rapid footsteps a blade through all the hushed whispers, and in seconds Natasha was on a mattress that never sprung layered in quilts that still smelt of the plastic they had been sold in. An old habit from childhood often led her to sleep in seconds. Her teachers, after all, were foreign to generosity. Seven hours - no more, no less. Natasha quickly learned to accept what she was given.

The bed emanated warmth. The night sky engulfed the light, and even her eyes, practiced and scrutinizing, could hardly see. Her breathing evened out. Eyelids flickered shut.

And her phone rang.

Jarring. Inevitable. Natasha charged headfirst into her pillow, pounding it with her fist. Why, why, _what_ _now?_

The caller ID was genuine, and only those with a death wish called the Black Widow's number after ten. Natasha should make time to save contacts. Though she didn't know if contacts were even a possibility on ancient flip phones even the KGB hadn't dealt with. Even Stark - no, Tony, he felt like more of a Tony today - grasped the concept about as well as one toyed with wet soap.

She flicked it open, eyes boring into the fluorescent screen.

"What do you want?"

"Oh, someone's in a good mood."

Natasha inhaled sharply, the air making a small _thwip_ as it flew about.

"Fury. Nice of you to call."

"You really think so, huh?" His voice was deeper, guttural, as though his throat was swollen. "You won't like what I've got to say."

"I'm done checking the footage, if that's what you're calling for. It'll be there tomorrow."

"Really?" Fury's tone spiked; a hint of amusement to it. "What did you think?"

"Eh." Natasha shrugged, her left cheek stretching into a smirk. "Not bad. He could have avoided suspicion, though. Lured them out then done it. He left too many clues behind."

"Worse he is, better we are."

He wasn't wrong. Yet her mind went _dominate dominate dominate_ , promising her she'd fail if she ever ceased working harder than the others. Another early childhood lesson. Natasha's childhood was a school worth a hundred years' knowledge.

Fury sighed on the other end, voice momentarily flaking out. "I've got news, Romanoff."

 _Get it over with,_ Natasha wanted to say. _Let me get back to sleeping_.

"Agent Romanoff," Fury commenced, clearing his throat, "Stan Lee is dead."

And Natasha's world rolled right off its axis.

"Brave soldier, the man was. I liked him. I know you did, too. Just thought you didn't need the shock first thing tomorrow morning."

"I- thank you. That's very thoughtful of you."

"Sure you'll be alright, Natasha?"

 _Natasha._ She hadn't been called that, not at S.H.I.E.L.D., not in warehouses or fight zones, and certainly not in Russia, in an achingly long time. Only the Avengers ever called her that. And only Clint and Bruce called her Nat. It always felt strange, hearing the name roll around others' tongues; not fearful or pissed or admiring but _warm_. Where she had grown up, blankets were luxuries and her summers were spent locked away from light. Staring at stained walls, not knowing what had stained them, and then staining them with her own victories. Natasha was coerced into building her own fires. But even those had burned and raged out of control, and the shouts of _more, more, more_ still echoed in the back of her mind whenever she let someone live.

"Natasha? Agent, you alright?"

Then Natasha twitched, and she found herself bristling, because they could use her name all they wanted, but never like that, _pitying_ and condescending.

"Never been better, Fury."

 _Not convincing enough._

"People die; it's nothing new." She considered her parents, her enemies, other civilians. "We just have to learn to live with what we got."

"Well put, Agent."

"Goodnight, Nick."

Natasha heard the slight hitch in his breath, smirked, and flicked the phone shut again. Better have him angry than worried. Though he wouldn't be angry enough to carry it into the morning, not with Natasha being the asset she was.

She hurled the phone into the nearest wall. The one opposite her bed, as it happened.

 _Stan Lee_.

When was it that she'd last seen him - two, three years ago? He had shuffled into the room, Tony hanging at his heels, hunched over and giving her that soft, crooked smile only elders knew how to wield. They'd both flanked him, and led him to a seaside cafe with breathtaking views, and he and Natasha had ordered Coca Cola - her, to stay awake for the coming mission, him, to get a taste of sepia, mechanical times. Tony had called for his usual black coffee, and the three of them had sat there, reminiscing about ancient occurrences and regaling each other with more recent tales. For a rare three hours, Natasha had not felt dangerous or threatening. She'd stared at the butter knife on her table, and only thought of ordering cake, and not who it could kill. Her mission, later, had been the most successful she'd ever had, and she'd come back grinning.

When was the _f_ _irst_ _time_ _she'd seen_ him?

Oh, that was in the past. The distant past, nearly eight years ago. Her hair had been curlier, then. Longer. And still red. There she was, this furious, lethal woman, quips on her tongue and death lodged into her every footstep, only speaking to Clint. The rest; she smirked and watched the blood run from their cheeks, and it felt good. Only one person, other than Clint, dared smirk back.

Tony goddamn Stark.

They knew him, back in Russia - how could they not, when Howard Stark had practically fought the entire Cold War, churning out weapons until he died? There had been a whole meeting, hours long. Natasha picked at her fingernails and her superiors assessed the child, deciding how dangerous the new Stark would be.

Not a threat, they had concluded. Too many scandals and too many girls to his name.

Clint, though, said otherwise.

 _Just give him scraps and watch what he'll do to them. Man's a freaking genius with machines. You're just lucky he's nice, too._

 _You're just lucky_. No one had ever told her that. Other people were the lucky ones when she came into the play. But apparently Stark deserved respect.

He kept trying to talk to her, after she'd helped him out. Made obscene jokes, told her unnecessary stories, mostly talked to himself. Didn't care when Natasha smiled right back, spoke in words designed to disarm, and found a rebuke for every sentence. Tony Stark had only seemed to care about her way of talking; not what she actually said.

Then one day he strolled into S.H.I.E.L.D., all sunglasses and suits, with an achingly old man leaning into him. It had been the man's idea to come, not Stark's, and he moved with stiff feet into the break room and said hello.

Surprised, Natasha remembered. She'd been very surprised, and thrown off by the foreign feeling.

"Name's Stan." The man extended his hand, and she glanced at Stark, who shrugged.

"Natasha Romanoff." She tried frowning at him, but the white-haired man didn't even flinch. Maybe he and Tony were related.

"Confused, are you? I just like meeting Tony's friends, that's all." Stan grinned, and she raised an eyebrow. "He tends to find interesting people, you see. It's such fun meeting them!"

"I suppose I'm honored Stark thinks that." Natasha smirked at the latter, who for once showed just a smidge of unease. "What brings you here, Mr. Stan?"

" _Stan,_ please. I'm not all that." He grinned at her like this was the most wonderful fact he'd ever shared.

Frankly, Natasha had no clue what to make of him. On a regular day she dealt with the young: dangerous minds, excited scientists, bitter children. Those Natasha knew usually didn't make it past thirty. Yet there he was, somewhere in his early eighties, face shining like he'd known her for even longer.

"Tony here tells me you're a soldier."

Natasha's head jerked up.

"A spy. Assassin. Not a soldier."

"Well, both take orders and help their bosses, don't they? Says you've switched sides recently."

 _Not out of loyalty_. She'd done it out of hatred for her mentors, for her colleagues, for the Red Room. She'd done it for freedom; for the space to breathe.

"Yes, you can phrase it that way."

"So why do you hate the side you've chosen so much?"

"I don't-"

And she was stumped.

"You know," Stan said softly, "I knew a man once. Hated hurting others. He was a soldier, too. Kept his hurt in, he did. Never let it go away, and it destroyed him in the end."

He glanced - almost lovingly - at Stark, who returned a brief smile. Relaxed, but eyes screaming discomfort _\- sensitive subject._ Natasha made a note.

"Sometimes when you're a soldier, it feels like all you do is kill and kill and kill. You'll only see what you sacrificed. Never what you saved."

Natasha nodded. Almost vigorously. She'd had to stop herself.

She nodded again now, in the present where people died and their words didn't.

Gave Tony a chance. Met Clint's family. Loved Bruce, then mourned, then loved him anyway. Told herself, unfailingly every morning, _One day, you'll see the people you've saved._

And she had, hadn't she? Natasha had saved New York, and Sokovia, and dozens of unaccounted families and people. Natasha had made friends, and occasionally, she dropped the constant charade. All for one promise she made every morning.

She wouldn't punch Fury tomorrow. No, Natasha would smile, and shake his hand, and mourn with her coworkers and help them cry. Not because crying or smiling was the right response, but because it was _her_ response, and soldiers always mourned together.

The clock struck two minutes to midnight.

Natasha watched as two stray tears stained her floor, then two more. and soon dozens. She didn't bother with cleaning them up.

 _Cheers, soldier. Where you are, you'll see everyone you've saved._

* * *

 **so i feel... weird about this? Tell me what you think, guys!  
Love, Mariam **


	4. Bruce

**I'm finally back, and with Bruce, too! Woop woop!**

 **Finals are over, thank goodness, and inshallah I'll be able to keep that update promise I made two weeks ago, and give you guys the other three I've got planned so far - Clint, Thor, and Peter. Maybe Hope Van Dyne, too, though I'm not sure. Tell me who you guys want to see!**

 **Bruce was... complicated, to say the least. Not the Natasha kind of complicated, but even worse - he's the only one, I think, who doesn't choose to 'turn on' his powers, which makes the Hulk such an intricate, integral part of him. And it was weird showing that, without making it awful. I'm still not one-hundred-percent convinced, but I do hope you guys like this chapter.**

* * *

 **Bruce**

It was the doorbell that set him off.

Bruce, as a rule, let no one know where he lived. Not his colleagues, not the Avengers, and certainly not S.H.I.E.L.D., who sniffed out assets like bloodhounds. Not even the landlord knew it was Bruce Banner in their apartment half the time, because those who knew of him expected callused, green skin, and those didn't were comfortable with their ignorance. Bruce didn't mind – he was comfortable with it too; it made life easier for him. Only Tony and Pepper knew where he lived, and that worked out just fine, because it was those two and no-one else that he trusted himself around.

 _The doorbell wasn't supposed to ring._

Another agreement between him and Tony: when the billionare felt like coming over, he'd call Bruce first. Never ring the doorbell, in case one day someone found out where Bruce lived.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had found him.

Bruce didn't hesitate, but he didn't cause a ruckus, either – maybe he'd convince them home was vacant. Backpacks, shirts, trousers – all of them were littered across his flat in unsurprising excess. He stuffed the latter into the former, counting the seconds until the bell would inevitably ring once more, praying that it hadn't been Tony who gave him away. Praying that the other guy wouldn't make his first debut in months.

The bell rang again, its deep clang jarring as its reverb echoed across the flat. Bruce flinched, running into his bedroom to look for money.

 _Thirty seconds_.

Two minutes tops, before they crashed in and began shooting, and then the other guy would _definitely_ rear his head. Bruce couldn't hope for Natasha, not anymore, because S.H.I.E.L.D. no longer trusted them near one another. It was Bruce and his backpack and possibly the pipe he'd have to scale to escape unnoticed; though knowing Fury, his agents would be stationed in every nook and crevice. The bell went off once more. Bruce's hands were shaking. Veins melting into a pulsing vomit green.

 _No_.

He didn't know how to climb, but the window would have to do, and if they found him – well, he'd think about that then. Or maybe he wouldn't, maybe he'd be encased in ripped fabric and deafening roars, and they'd be forced to cope with someone else.

Bruce just hoped that whatever brought them wasn't a fight.

He threw open the window, his breathing hot and hurried. He lived on the first floor – one of many precautions he and Tony had taken when scouting for an apartment, and there were rubbish bags piled beneath the ledge, where neighbours didn't care to go. Maybe Bruce wouldn't have to climb after all. His mind raced, calculating forces and trajectories; estimating just how much the landing might hurt him.

Another high-pitched buzz. Bruce flinched; crouched to take the leap. With luck, he'd avoid spraining his ankles.

They just _had_ to find him, hadn't they? Even though he'd been kind, he'd been _quiet_ , avoiding experiments and villains and stress, with only silence and sentimental movies emanating from his apartment. He and Tony conversed now and then, sure, and Natasha was as wily as ever, claiming that she knew where he lived but never actually visiting to prove it, but he'd never let himself stress out. He did everything slowly, methodically, with precision his college professors would probably admire; never leaving his time to chance. Bruce had done his best, truly, and they still wanted him.

 _Next time, not even Tony's gonna know._

Bruce thought, then threw his bag below, where it hit the pile with an unremarkable _thump_. S.H.I.E.L.D. were being generous. He couldn't count on them waiting any longer than they already had.

The bell went off again, twice in quick succession.

Bruce paused. _Twice?_

Sure, S.H.I.E.L.D. hunted with scary determination. But they prided themselves on being professional, too. Never in a million years would they act desperate.

 _Maybe it's a trick. To draw you out, make you look through the hole._

No, Bruce would _not_ look through the hole. They'd see the sudden shadow, clear as day, and they wouldn't hesitate. He turned back to jump, for real this time, before a low hum reached his ears.

He caught _Banner,_ _door_ , and _please_.

 _What the hell?_

Bruce was dreaming. He had to be. He tiptoed off the ledge, inching toward the door. Still avoiding the eyehole. The door, tall and mahogany, seemed to be mocking him.

"Uh, Dr. Ban – sir? Are you in there?"

The voice belonged to someone young – no, an honest-to-god _kid_ , it had to be – high and just a tad desperate. It echoed again, and Bruce reeled at the sound of it, trying hard to imagine how a _kid_ of all types of people would end up here. A sick S.H.I.E.L.D. trick? They started young, didn't they, those agents? Though not that innocent, he hoped. Natasha's workplace was many things – warped, dangerous, unfailing – but above all they protected the people, and surely, Bruce hoped, that meant no kids.

So Bruce did the unthinkable. He opened the door.

Sure enough, before him stood a boy, with wavy, russet hair and wide brown eyes. Just a couple inches taller than Tony. He was dressed for his age, in a hoodie and geeky t-shirt, and his eyes were red-rimmed.

The boy's hand jolted toward Bruce, and Bruce jumped back. His visitor's cheeks turned a faint red.

"Uh, it's a pleasure to meet you, sir. Mr. Stark sent me here. I'm uh - well, my name's Peter Parker. Sorry if I burst in on you."

* * *

Bruce was ready to _murder_ Tony.

Forget what he'd said about the Hulk. Hulk was _great_. If Hulk showed up, the billionare would probably feel just a smidge of the worry that had consumed him for, what, _fifteen minutes?_

 _There's a teenager in my kitchen._

Peter-something – Bruce didn't know, and he didn't especially care just yet. He needed to process the facts first. A sixteen-year-old boy was making him chamomile tea. Tony was, as Pepper and J.A.R.V.I.S. had both put it, unavailable. And he, the guy with seven PhDs, was lost and pissed off.

"Dr. Banner? Do you prefer sugar or no sugar?"

"No sugar, thanks."

At least the kid was sweet.

"Oh, okay then. Coming your way right now, sir."

Bruce wasn't quite sure what to do with all the _misters_ and _sirs_. He hadn't been shown that much respect since he'd first become the Hulk; back when he'd become too volatile to teach and too feared to be a scientist. He suspected it was just the kid's own habit. Peter – he'd better get used to calling him Peter, if he wanted to return the politeness – seemed too awed and wide-eyed for his own good, as he meandered into the living room with two steaming mugs.

"It's, um, still pretty hot. Though you'd probably already know that." The kid looked like he was chastising himself, as he blushed once more. "Just thought it'd be helpful for what I'm about to say."

"Yes, about that." Bruce pointed at the kid as he said it, hoping the blush wouldn't worsen. It did anyways, and he apologised hurriedly before talking again. "You are here, because..."

"Oh! Because, um, Mr. Stark sent me."

"I get that, ki– Peter. But _why_ did Tony send you? Why didn't he come? How'd you even–" Bruce frowned as he thought. "How'd you even know him?"

"I've got news from Mr. Stark, Dr. Banner." Peter paused, breathing slowly. "I, uh – he didn't actually send me."

"He didn't send you. Well, that's great."

"I swear I'm not breaking in! It's just, he looked so guilty and depressed, and coming here would have made him even _worse_ , and he really doesn't need that. So I asked Ms. Potts for your address, and I came myself. He wanted it to be him, but no-one's letting him outside the mansion right now."

"Huh." Well, if Pepper let him through, the kid was worth trusting, Bruce deduced. Then his brain caught up with the rest of Peter's short speech.

"Woah woah woah, what's wrong with Tony, Peter?" He watched as the boy cringed, his expression turning more distraught. "Peter, is he okay?'

"He's not injured, Dr. Banner."

Bruce nodded, slowly. "Alright, that's good. Good news. So then what's the problem?"

Peter's hands began shaking – much like Tony's did when something wasn't right. Bruce could suddenly feel his chest shudder, his insides folding tightly into themselves. It didn't help that Peter started crying – dozens of small droplets that slid right off the leather couch and onto the floor.

"Woah, Peter, it's okay. It's okay." Bruce's mind was racing. It was harder thinking through his mounting anxiety. Was it the Hulk? Maybe the kid was scared?

"Peter, just tell me what happened to Tony. I'm not – I'm not going to do the Hulk thing, okay? I know I'm famous for that, but I won't do it."

Peter nodded, sniffing. He muttered a small "I'm not scared of that, Dr. Banner," and Bruce's heart squeezed at that, though not out of joy. Because if it wasn't the _Hulk_ that scared this kid, then something truly terrible had happened. Bruce reached for his tea, which was lukewarm now. He felt thankful for the kid's idea to make some.

"Dr. Banner, I – Mr. Lee passed away."

Bruce felt confused, especially when Peter erupted into tears all over again.

"Mr. Lee?" Bruce didn't know anyone named Lee.

Peter nodded, and his next words were interspersed by small hiccups. "Mr. Stan Lee."

"Oh."

And before Bruce knew it, droplets were landing in his tea.

* * *

Peter cleaned up pretty fast. In only ten minutes or so, his eyes were dry again (Though still shot with red), and his grip on the mug was firmer. Gaze locked on Bruce, who hadn't said anything for a torturously long five minutes.

Bruce could see the kid, clearly. He could hear his thoughts, whirring and weeping and screaming, and he heard them clearly, too. But all he could do was cry. Truth be told, he was _scared_ , scared that he'd be a furious griever who would break his peace and then break the kid before him in half. Wasn't this just perfect for the Hulk? To show up and start throwing things just so Bruce wouldn't have to deal with emotions?

After the Chitauri, after Fury had finally let Bruce exist without the need to run – unless they needed him drafted, Bruce thought, bitterly – Stan had been one of the few Bruce had gotten to know all over again, even though back then the thought had scared him out of his wits. But Stan was _safe_ , always had been, all slow limbs and soft words, everything about him emanating kind, old age. Stan had first come into Bruce's life as a witness: a Howling Commando, one of the few left who recalled Steve Rogers in action; who could tell them whether their serum recreation was working. He had stayed as a curious friend, and he had stubbornly stuck with Bruce even after everything had gone awry, and the scientist had warned him to stay away. When Bruce had reached out to him again, years later, Stan had been delighted to hear from him again. That he was Tony's friend too was lucky coincidence, and though they never spoke together as much as Bruce wished they could, Tony told him all sorts of stories, and that had been good enough for Bruce.

No, not good enough anymore. Stan was _dead_. He was stuck in a cold morgue, and Bruce wouldn't be allowed to see him, and their last talk had been a two-minute phone call.

 _Stan is dead._

Bruce heaved, his tears still coming but now faster and heavier, like a cloud that had hung grey for too long. Peter's image before him blurred and then focused and then did the whole thing all over. But Bruce couldn't concentrate, not on that, not on _anything_ except how every one of his plans failed, how the piece of shit Hulk in him filled him with shame and regret whether he chose to talk or hide, how Stan had been the only person he'd done _both_ with and it had still ended in death and misery.

The death, he'd seen it coming. He wasn't stupid, after all. The knotted, arthritic movement, the dementia-like daydreams of the past, the heart-rending acceptance that came when the person knew their body was giving up and no longer fought against it. But still Bruce had insisted on imagining it as a thing of the future, because the world was so big and wonderful now, _surely_ someone out there had found something for people like Stan. But no, they hadn't, Stan was dead, and only the memory of a meeting five months ago was left, because Bruce had only called him after that.

The mug cracked.

Bruce looked down, and so did the ever-silent Peter. They'd both finished their tea – he could see Peter's cup because it was back on the table – but that didn't mean the crack didn't terrify Bruce to his core. A small scar tearing through the ceramic; nothing glue couldn't fix.

Neither of them, however, missed the pulse of green in Bruce's hand.

"Peter." Bruce tried to keep his voice level. His chest was stuffed; he could feel the tightness strengthen its hold. "Peter, I'm sorry, I really am, but you should go."

Peter stared at him, eyes wide.

"Did you– did you hear me? Peter? I'm not stable right now. You need to go, kid, before something bad happens."

Peter raised his brows, before uttering a small _oh_.

"Sorry, Dr. Banner. You just haven't, uh, spoken in a while."

 _Fair enough_. "I'm sorry about that too, Peter, I really am. But you need to–"

"Go?" Peter suddenly flushed. "Oh God, sorry, _sorry_ , I didn't mean to interrupt you–"

"That's alright–"

"But _no_ , Dr. Banner, sir, I don't need to go."

"Oh?"

"I don't think you'll be dangerous, sir. You're grieving, like Mr. Stark is. You shouldn't, um. You shouldn't stay here alone."

Bruce stared at the kid, who looked back with equally unsure eyes. _He didn't think Bruce would Hulk out?_ That was a first.

"You're sure about this?"

Peter nodded, and Bruce felt even more surprised.

"I'm the _Hulk_ , kid. I don't know where you know Tony from, but I don't think he's told you what I can do."

The teenager shook his head, frowning. "You're not _Hulk_. You're Dr. Bruce Banner. You're like the biggest scientist of the century! And I'd be thrilled to meet you any other day, really. I love everything you do!"

"You're serious, Peter?"

"Yeah, really serious! You're one of the coolest people on Earth!"

Bruce snorted. "Stan wouldn't think that. But– thank you for the compliment."

"What? No, Mr. Lee said you were the best!"

Bruce's head jerked up, and he stared at the kid. "You knew him?"

"He, um. He lives – lived – nearby. We were friends. He always told me you'd been incredible back when he worked with you. And, well, you're Dr. Banner!"

Peter grinned at him – awed but hesitant, Bruce would put it. He could see why Tony would want to be friends with a kid like him.

Stan _admired_ him. Had, Bruce reminded himself, shuddering. But he hadn't seen Bruce as some half-hearted buddy he spoke to when the day got too dull. He had _liked_ him. Talked about him to some random kid, like it was an everyday discussion.

 _He hadn't messed up._

Peter stayed, long after Bruce cried again, long after he started laughing and whooping with joy, long after the sun brushed the horizon. After all, Peter was grieving, and though Bruce didn't know the first thing about teenagers or what Peter and Stan had shared, he knew well enough that ice-cream and conversation were universal. They talked for hours, mostly about science, and Bruce told the kid – wide-eyed, tearful, grinning – about Stan's story. How he'd marched in purposefully, demanding to help Steve, even after half a dozen scientists reiterated he was too old. How he still grinned at Bruce even after the Hulk was born, only saying _you should see the things Howard used to do_. How he'd brought Bruce and Tony even closer and marvelled at both of them despite not understanding a single thing about their careers, how he drew and told stories whenever science got too cruel. How Stan had divulged the secrets Steve had divulged back in '43: It wasn't just the superhuman speed and strength, it was superhuman empathy too, an amplification of everything that made Bruce human. How, after years, Bruce had _finally_ began to feel human once more, and sure, it was Tony who really brought him back, but Stan had started him on that journey.

 _"It makes you stronger, my boy, not just in your body, but up here, too."_ They'd had the discussion years ago, over a lukewarm cup of coffee, and Stan had pointed up at his own forehead, smiling softly.

Peter left shortly after sunset – very early, in the midst of November. But they were friends now, and they planned to ambush Tony at the Stark mansion very soon.

Bruce was supposed to be mourning. Truth be told, he _was_ , because his chest still squeezed and he spurted random tears. But he'd become used to death and distance, to losing friends and family to a vomit-green alter-ego. And here was a man who was none of that, who had arrived at the beginning and stayed till the very end.

So when Bruce went to bed, it was with tears in his eyes, regret clasped in his hand, along with his phone, and a slight anger floating around him. But he could _feel_ all that, feel it and not transform. So he smiled, too.

* * *

 **Pro tip: when you don't know how to write a character, insert another character and write _that_ one instead. Works every time.**

 **All jokes aside, I didn't want to give every character an intricate, serious relationship because that's just not realistic. I just wanted to see what Stan Lee would bring out in each of them (Anger, despair, Pride/Longing, regret - thats the order here so far), and Bruce, who's often alone and locked in his own head, has a pretty shaky grasp on feelings from what I've seen. He's a lot of things all at once, and without someone there for him to talk to, he sounds almost scary weird. he feels so much and he can't show it because _Hulk_ , and he deserves a shot at figuring it out for once. And I got to try one of my favorite unexplored interactions - an excited Spidey and weirded-out Bruce. And their situation is weird, but oh well.**

 **Sorry for all the philosophical character talk! Drop a review and tell me what you think - I think I'll do Clint tomorrow.**

 **Love, Mariam**


	5. Clint

**YA GIRL'S IN NEW YORK CITY! Dear _God_** **it is absolutely breathtaking. Everything twinkles and the roads are all wet with rain, and that is incredible for my dry Dubai-based butt! And it's FREEZING and I adore it!**

 **Anyways, enough about NYC, here is Clint! Similar to Nat, Clint was super hard, but not because he's secretive, but because he's so underused in Marvel, no one knows what our idiot archer is doing half the time. I drew a lot from comics, i.e. disaster, moody, hoh!Clint is here to say hello. But like, he still has a family and stuff, because otherwise is major erasure of MCU canon.**

 **I hope you guys like it!**

* * *

Changing the volume did nothing, and lip reading was fruitless. Natasha kindly but firmly stated her news, mixing together phrases that, in his mind, just shouldn't be put together.

"Nat, am I hearing you right?"

He almost winced at the ridiculousness of the question: of _course_ Clint wasn't hearing her right. He hadn't heard _anything_ right in months now, and it was quickly transforming from a slight bug to a debilitating condition. Something about the hairs in his ears falling out, no longer flicking. Clint hadn't paid much attention to the diagnosis – only to the fact that Fury now traded with him almost _exclusively_ in old-man jibes.

Natasha nodded, her foggy eyes shifting from his own to his ears, before settling on the former.

"For your sake, Clint, I hope you are.

"If I'm right, then Stan Lee is dead."

She nodded once more. Clint choked on his coffee.

* * *

 _Coffee and sleep. When you can't have one, you can always go for the other._

 _What a lovely mantra._

Even lovelier because he'd made it up, Clint told himself.

There was another one to add to that short list, now – leaving work early. No, leaving work _ten minutes_ after he'd walked in, burning eyes daring Fury to tell him no. Staring down interns and low-level colleagues, feeling an odd satisfaction as the vast majority shrunk away.

 _Archery course, now_. Naturally, there was one right here at S.H.I.E.L.D., squeaky-clean and for the most part forgotten, and Clint wasn't keen on considering it twice.

Alright, so he technically stood within campus. But he sure as hell stood far from where he should be; which today meant ambling past Fury's office as he conducted one of his famous meetings with world leaders. The meeting, though, was scheduled late into the afternoon. Fury wouldn't miss his archer for quite a while.

Clint arrived sooner than he expected. The training grounds were enormous – and even then, they barely contained all the recruits – and the ten-minute stretch between the offices and targets should have been longer in November, when the ice shrouded the world and every move lingered slow and steady. He'd been marching, he realized, and so engrossed in his own mind that the wisps of fire in his legs had escaped him. Clint guessed his face must have been stony, too – there was no way he'd wandered blindly for so long without crashing into others. People must have been avoiding him.

Alright, didn't matter if they were cowards – not with the building empty and every quiver full. The interior mimicked a shooting range, really; with only the headphones and glass-dividers gone, and the human targets replaced with round ones. The only other benefit was a lilac coffee machine – Clint's property, not S.H.I.E.L.D.'s – which went well with the stormy walls and cobalt linoleum. Clint got it brewing and reached for the nearest quiver, counting the number of shots he would get. A dozen arrows, all pointed and neatly arranged.

 _Twelve thoughts it is._

He downed his steaming cup in one gulp, relishing the sudden burn in his throat. Pain meant focus, and focus meant he could finish this, right now.

Thing was, Clint knew he and death often walked side-by-side. Walked differently from the rest of his teammates – from Cap, who desperately chased death and never caught up, from Stark, whom death followed like a resilient shadow; even from Natasha, who usually begged it to leave her alone. Clint had _chosen_ death – had trained for it, had watched it, and soon enough caused it. He'd known what he was getting into, back when he was a terrified teenager, and he didn't for a second regret his choice. Clint taking this position meant one more person who didn't, and that person, for all he knew, could be some lying psycho. In some ways, Clint probably knew death better than anyone else.

That never made it any easier, though.

Especially not when it was Stan Lee, a person he wished he'd known better.

Stan was – well, he was _weird_ for Clint, wasn't he? They hadn't known each other well – only met through Natasha and Tony, traded kind smiles amd covert nods. Not that Clint _hadn't_ wanted to know him. Life had just gotten in the way – work, his family, the dozens of people threatening to end his world. Between shooting arrows and easing tensions between others, he just hadn't found the time to work with old men.

He knew a few things about Stan, though. He knew that Stan had worked tirelessly with Stark and Natasha, laughing and grinning until both of them could too. That Peggy Carter, his decades-old mentor, spoke of him just as highly as Steve, which always meant something. That he could appreciate both his dark and slapstick humor, and admire his sensitivity when it mattered. That, above all, Stan Lee had fixed the hearing aid implanted just behind Clint's left ear, the senior laughing at the simplicity of something his own folks would have adored.

Stan Lee, Clint decided, was pretty cool. And he regretted not knowing him better.

Clint shouldered his bow, planting his feet and hooking in the first arrow. He didn't have to bother with the bracer – it only ever came off when Clint was with his family, and he needed to know that he'd have a working wrist if any surprises sprung up at work. He breathed in, pulled, released. The arrow sliced clean through the air. _Bullseye_.

 _Trustworthy. Fury never doubted him; even Natasha spoke kindly to him. The only thing he kept closer than secrets were people._

Clint loved the bow and arrow. Not for the aesthetic, or practicality, but because he could _sense_ it. Because his failing ears would miss gunshots and falter near knives, but he'd always see an arrow sailing in the wind. Off went the next arrow.

 _Funny. Really funny. Probably beat Stark at humor once or twice. Maybe even three times. Must have been fun in the old days._

He didn't recall the joke, but he remembered the laughter, and the happy ache right next to his heart as everyone howled. Later on, Clint had learned to study eyes, not lips, to judge people's jokes. The best ones always made eyes crinkle like well-worn foil, and Stan's face was permanently wrinkled, the cracks around his eyes deep-set and small.

Arrow three flew, landing only half an inch away from the first two.

 _Brave. Still'd be a good fighter, even now._ Stan's form had strained under his courage – not courage like his, or Natasha's, or even Steve's, where he knew how to live with the dead. But the courage to _be_ ; that was what he had. He cried and told stories and fell in love with the colour of the sky once, Clint remembered, and turned a blind eye to the occasional jerk who called him weak.

 _Four_.

 _He really was weak, though, wasn't he? Training gone pretty fast._ You didn't just become a public ally of Steve Rogers and Tony Stark without invoking some sort of wrath on yourself. Look at Barnes, for God's sake. Brainwashed then forgetful and now sleeping in some freezer, the way his friend never wanted to again. Pepper, too – almost as exasperated as Clint sometimes was, watching her really-not-that-smart fiancé let his fame get the best of him. Stan sort of just... stopped fighting after he got home. He wore wide shoes and hired assistants and depended on others. Pretty cool that he could trust that much.

Clint only barely got the fifth arrow through. The S.H.I.E.L.D. bullseye paled in comparison to targets he'd caught before, true, but it could only take, what, six arrows total? And that was only if he aimed right – which, well, he always found himself doing.

 _"Let's just call him... my long-lost half-uncle. That's about right."_

That had been the first time Clint had heard of Stan – through Stark's words. He hadn't met the man, and he could still hear perfectly. Everyone, even _Bruce_ of all people had known this guy, and Clint had wanted in on the conversation. It hadn't been the answer he'd expected, but it had been an answer nonetheless, and Clint appreciated anyone who could do better than his own crap parenting. _At least they've all got a guy who doubles as a therapist._ God knew his friends sometimes needed that.

He let the sixth go, then sidestepped the next target, already nocking another.

 _Pretty resolute._ The only civilian – in history, Clint recalled – to infuriate Fury and then get away with it. Just as he'd insisted on ignoring the opinionated, he made it a point to dismiss authority every now and then: meeting the Avengers before missions, going through classified files for fun – okay, Nat let him do that; didn't change a thing – and occasionally confusing visitors at Captain America's museum by insisting that the suit on-display was the one the commander actually wore these days. The backlash after that last one had been exciting. Clint had never seen so many reporters laughing.

 _Seven_. He'd been here for ten minutes, now. Sooner or later – probably sooner – Natasha would know. Clint wanted this to be done before anyone else showed up.

 _Really calm, every time I saw him. Never once freaked out or yelled._

 _Eight._

 _Wasn't genius, but he always tried to understand. Made him smart._

 _Nine._

 _Kind. Really, really kind. I owe him a hearing aid._

 _Ten._

 _Loved life more than most old men. Probably more than any of us idiots over here._

 _Eleven._

 _He did exactly what he wanted to do before he left. At least he got that._

 _Twelve._

 _Stan Lee made a difference. A big one._

That was always how Clint ended it. Twelve arrows, a dozen thoughts, and then he walked away pretending death didn't matter until theatre became his reality. _X made a difference_. 'X' was kind, evil, a civilian, whatever – they were anyone Clint hadn't wanted to die. A dozen steel arrows were always enough.

Except they weren't, not really. Not right now.

Stan wasn't just a random civilian dressed in workout clothes. He wasn't some unnamed German who held things for HYDRA. Clint _knew_ him, if only from afar. They'd met many times, and, true, they stared more than talked, but that was _something_.

Clint didn't remember walking. He remembered reaching for an arrow only to be met with an empty quiver. He remembered that all of a sudden the quiver was full again, and emptied even quicker, and targets were saturated with steel like a storm assaulting the pavement. And it went on again and again, and Clint thought.

He should have spoken to him, should have asked Nat more questions, should have been less of an asshole to Stark and maybe the billionare would have opened up. But too many _should'ves_ compromised a mission; everyone knew that.

He should have at least paid him back for the hearing aid.

"Clint?"

He whirled, bow poised high above his head. But then he saw the not-so-familiar blonde and the bow went back down, as Natasha, frowning, walked toward him.

"You do know we keep punching bags for the angry ones, right?"

There was a soft smile in her voice, but her eyes were red as her hair once was. Clint chuckled; half- happy and half-sad.

"Yeah, that's me. The furious wrestler."

"You should come back. We're having a small memorial. More agents knew him than I thought – interesting, huh?"

Clint thought for a few moments, before shaking his head. "Nah. I'm good. Feel better already."

"Which I can see." Natasha smiled softly, nodding at the ruined far wall. "You took on enough targets for ten."

"Yep."

"At least have the decency to apologize."

Clint could sense the smirk before he saw it, but he couldn't return his own. "Really, Nat, I don't want to. I'm good here, seriously."

"No, you're not. Don't make my mistake, okay? Don't let it eat you up. You're smarter than that."

 _Grade A manipulation, 'Tasha. Fury would be proud._ He didn't know if she was even doing it on purpose these days. Maybe it was just a sensitive time. Usually both of them could walk away from this at a moment's notice.

 _Usually_. What did Clint have to lose, anyways? He took a shudderinglg breath.

"I just – I feel like I didn't do enough, you know? He was – well..."

His voice shrunk back. Clint sat there, next to the coffee machine, and Natasha was next to him before he could figure out what to do.

"You don't have to talk, Clint. Just... feel. Let it make you happy. The guy existed and you knew him, and in another universe you didn't. Focus on that. I'm going to get close, that alright?"

Clint thought for a moment.

"Yeah, it's perfect."

And Natasha leaned into him, and Clint let the bow drop and undid the bracer, and Natasha, eyes wet, stayed there to watch Clint's first tears fall.

* * *

 **So, Thor next. I have promised myself to finish this story before the year ends. Preferably before this week ends, too (Um, that's Saturday for me - please google Middle East workdays for further clarification.) If I thought Clint was hard, I wonder what this Thor's going to be. Please do review, guys! Even if you're a guest or it's just a couple of words! Not just me - all writers, and I do respond to every one I see. They mean so much to me, and I'm sure it's the same for other authors, and I guarantee it pushes us to write quicker and better. thanks again!**

 **Love, Mariam**


	6. Thor

**AND SHE FINALLY POSTS AGAIN! God, it's been a while since I worked on this. I was scared of butchering Thor and also stopped by exams and GCSEs and family commitments and things.**

 **But I'm here, and it's largely due to the incredibl(y gifted!) NatalieRushman, who showed up out of the blue and faithfully reviewed and criticised every one of my chapters like an absolute angel. She reminded me that my writing does not go unwasted, and that I started this tribute with a mission. Go check out her stories, she's incredible! I've personally only skimmed through one, myself, which I have yet to properly appreciate, but I have never seen sucb an abundance of Thor fics nor such beautiful Loki characterization! She's epic!**

 **Anyways, for obvious reasons, Thor has no idea who Stan is. That's what I built this about, and I hope I've done it well :) Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Thor**

Once upon a time, Thor would visit Midgard about as often as a dog would want to visit the vet – sporadically, and only when something was horribly wrong.

But, no longer. Fifteen hundred years ago, he'd been fortunate enough to be born into the largest family any Asgardian had ever seen. Not just Frigga and Odin, and _certainly_ not just Loki, no – his friends, the warriors, his people, even the diplomats that came from all over the Nine Realms; all of them were family, too. Thor had only found out too late.

Not with Midgard, however. If a thousand and five-hundred years had taught him anything, it was that a few days well-spent could fix a millenium gone wrong. And the Avengers were quickly learning that, too. With their ridiculous fight ended and amends already underway, they were learning to talk to each other again - at a time he found only too perfect. The details still echoed sharp in his mind: a medley of hastily formulated excuses involving diplomats and laws and a little too much passion; and a fight that had quite literally shaken Midgard. Thor only had to consider Loki whenever he thought about what his friends had done, and he snorted every time. It was just so _petty_.

It wasn't that Thor didn't _like_ the Avengers. On the contrary – they were his favorite Midguardians, if only because they reminded him so strongly of the bravery and recklessness that came hand-in-hand with being a war god. Time, however, flowed differently around him. Days disappeared like minutes and months faded within hours, and he'd been alive for so long he'd forgotten just how fragile that life could be elsewhere. So now, he made it a point to pass by Avengers every fortnight – something close to it, anyways – and talk to his few friends that hadn't yet died.

The journey always ended as soon as it started, now that he had Stormbreaker, but these days, there _was_ no journey to make. Asgard was gone, and Thor only had to change where he stood on Earth. That was practically nothing. Stormbreaker's powers were far beyond a domestic flight, only rivalled by the skills of – well. Thor knew who well enough, and he didn't like thinking about it any more than he had to. He wasn't king of Asgard anymore. Earth was below him and all around him now, and it was always a wonderful place to ignore dreadful memories.

He always landed at Stark's, largely due to the fact that the inventor hardly ever left his home these days. It used to terrify Stark, but now he barely gave Thor a second glance before listing where the other Avengers were that day. Rogers usually frequented gyms and bars, and Romanoff and Clint hardly ever left S.H.I.E.L.D. Banner, however, remained a tantalizing mystery - he never told him where Banner was.

 _"I'll make you a video-chat, just for you two. It'll be like Skype – you_ don't _know Skype? Okay, it's a magic Thor-to-Bruce window._ God _, we need to acquaint you with the Earth, Shakespeare."_

Today, however, the Stark mansion appeared... empty. Hollow, almost. No machine-generated greetings, no Pepper Potts shrieking or a drone signalling security. Just Thor, the living room, and a reasonant silence.

"Stark?"

An interesting word, _Stark_. Had a sharp lilt to it - at once commanding and pleasant. It carried throughout the house and received no reply.

"Stark, it's Thor. I just thought I'd check in on the Avengers!"

Ten minutes of silence were enough to make Thor grip Stormbreaker just a little tighter.

"J.A.R.V.I.S.? Any idea where Stark is?"

He tried grinning at the walls, even smiled at the camera. Nothing; not even a whisper of an answer.

It didn't feel right. Stark breathed life into everything around him. He saved the dead and animated stone and metal, and his house always hummed with the sound of machinery working. Nothing in this home happened without some sort of machine assisting the doer, and snarkily advising them. Thor had not expected to yearn for a disembodied voice - was this how Stark felt, around machinery? The mansion was horribly lonely in their absence.

"Stark?" Thor took to pacing about the room, half-hoping the engineer would appear from behind the minibar, or fly in wearing armour, or even fall from the vents (Admittedly Clint's style, but still very possible.) He wanted to knock on the walls, maybe bother J.A.R.V.I.S. until he got an answer, but Thor was clueless as to what powered this complex. For all he knew, Asgardian magic coursed through this house; and what one did not understand was something one didn't tamper with.

Thor exchanged the living room for a bathroom, and that for the cabinets in the minibar, and soon he was considering whether or not his host could really be in the vents. _Stark_ echoed all over the building, until Thor was convinced anyone listening must now hate the sound of it.

He made for the stairs in a desperate bid to find the Avenger - and there it was, the noise he'd been awaiting. Thor turned behind him, a _creak_ and _thud_ in his ears. On instinct, Stormbreaker was raised, though it came back down just as fast when he recognized the source.

"Look, I don't _care_ if he was a simple guy or not, I'm not putting him somewhere that costs as much as _lunch."_

 _Stark isn't at his best, apparently._

"So you ignore his wishes just because it suits you?"

 _Rogers?_

"Steve, he's not–"

"No, Washington, it's because he deserves something his people can't afford and I am _fixing that!_ "

"Not everything is a machine for you to fix, Stark!"

"And not everything has to cater to your 40's bullshit!"

"If you could both just _shut up_ for ten minutes–"

 _Odin's eye, the entire team's come. And come with anger too._

"You know what? You guys figure out what you want, I'll pay."

"For God's sake, _Tony_ –"

"I'm going to get a drink."

And finally, Thor found Stark, donning a tuxedo and charcoal-black sunglasses that matched his outfit. Out of his sight, the rest; all engaged in another argument. And it sounded like one about _money_ , no less. Thor wondered what it was in people that led them to find war in the most useless things.

The Avengers hadn't seen him, though. They were outside and Stark stood at the marble countertop with a bottle in one hand and a tall glass in the other. Now was as good a time as any.

Thor spread his arms, walking away from the staircase. "Stark! Good to find you, old friend!"

Tony flinched, the glass slipping from his hand.

He turned around slowly. " _Thor?_ "

Thor grinned. "In the flesh."

"And you are doing... _what_ , here, exactly?"

"Visiting the Avengers! As usual. Though it seems for once you're all gathered together."

"For _once_. Don't get used to it."

"What's the occasion, then?"

Thor had asked amicably. He'd been smiling the entire time, all dramatic gestures and white teeth. But Stark shuddered, uttering a small sound before telling Thor to get his answers outside.

 _Alright, hard day. He's with Rogers, after all._

But when he entered the living room (A second one? Hadn't he searched the first?), smile still bold and resolute, he could see that _everyone_ was having a bad day, from Banner's unkempt hair to Romanoff's glassy, brooding gaze. They didn't even look up when he entered the room.

"Hi, Thor." Natasha's knees were pressed against her chest. Her back leaned against the coffee table, her knuckles mindlessly tapping the floor.

"Hello, everyone."

He only recieved two or three lackluster replies, their words disjointed and awkward. Thor blinked, before raising his eyebrows. These were the angry, raucous Avengers?

"Stark tells me you're all gathered for a reason."

Rogers shrugged. He was perched on the couch, staring at his feet. "He's right about that."

"What happened, if I might ask?"

Rogers opened his mouth, but his breath hitched; muscles tensing. Natasha sighed, staring at the wall. Banner – usually good at answering questions – shrunk into the corner he inhabited in the wall. _Not the best of signs_. Thor instantly regretted asking, but he found himself infinitely more intrigued - intrigued, in a morbid, self-loathing fashion, not like a rivetted schoolboy. Something so horrible that every Avenger seemed broken was cause enough to strengthen his grip on his hammer yet again, as he waited for an answer.

It was Clint that offered it, words and a yawn intermingled, and Thor whirled at the sound of his voice; he hadn't even known he was there. The archer left the bathroom, for once wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt in place of his S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform. His eyes were not quite as dark. His steps had some musical order to them. But Thor didn't miss the wariness in his gaze.

"Well, Thor, a friend of ours died last week. That's a pretty solid reason if you ask me."

"Died, you say?"

The Avengers lost comrades all the time. _He_ lost mortal friends in every battle. Their very name suggested that people would always be dying; giving them a reason to fight.

It was not just a friend, Thor decided. He called Heimdall, he called _Jane_ a friend these days – usually with a sad smile to go with it.

"We were visiting his family," Romanoff continued, her voice odd and small. "Steve and Tony are helping carry the casket. We wanted to see if we could help."

 _Ah_. Thor was beginning to see now. Not just a loved friend - family, as well. And his human comrades had very little family to begin with, so they always held whatever they knew close. They weren't angry, they were mourning, and the ways in which they differed had driven a wall between them. Grievers in the worst stage, turning emotion into anger and relationships into dust. Like Heimdall, like the Warriors Three.

 _Like Frigga_.

Well, Thor knew better than most _exactly_ how to play this game. True, he usually was on the other side, but it never hurt to switch between lanes. Thank the Allfathers he had come today - his friends were in desperate need of a monologue of some sort; something to rouse and cheer them.

"And this... friend of yours, you were all close to him?" He propped himself against the wall behind him, his gaze shifting between the four before him – no, five; Stark had just appeared with a wine glass in hand.

Thor remembered, after all, the centuries of strained grins and watery vision that still haunted him – would haunt _them_ if nobody put an end to their grief. How could he not, when all of Asgard had been slaughtered before his eyes; when Death herself had haunted him with crude methods and ruthlessness dripping from her lips? Everyone who had followed Thor into adulthood was dead or missing, and he grieved for both the same way. He dressed it up quite nicely, that was certain, but weren't his blows more blunt these days? His lightning brighter, his fights weighted in his favor? Thor knew the exact words; the very tones he'd have needed. He knew the reminders he'd have issued himself. He especially knew the happy-go-lucky demeanor he tried to maintain in the light of death - not because he was so happy, but because the universe would swallow him up if he tried anything else.

"I don't know about _close_." Banner shifted from foot to foot as he said it, eyes downcast like his sleeves were the worst thing to ever happen to him. "He was a great guy, Stan. Helped us all through difficult stuff. He made New York a better place."

A parental figure, by the looks of it. The picture slowly started to form before him - the broken stares and helplessness of his teammates; like children lost in a discordant crowd. The quiet shock that permeated the air and forced them to speak in hushed tones, lest they disrupt it. Tension could fester here, and easily, too.

"Then what were you all arguing about, if you're all his friends? You're mourning together, are you not?"

Thor instinctively turned to Rogers at the couch, and Stark at the doorway, and he wasn't surprised that the rest of the room did too. It was _always_ those two. Mortal grudges were the stuff of legend on Midgard - Thor wondered how many wars they had caused.

"Well," Stark began, his famous shrug stealing the limelight, _"I_ have money, and I'm planning to give Stan a decent funeral. Big gravestone, 40's band, fly in his old friends. Make it a goodbye ceremony to remember."

Thor frowned. That was an _honorable_ thing to do for a dead man. Send him off with dignity and respect and take back the sense of control his death had stolen. Given the chance, he'd have done nothing less for all the Asgardians he had left behind.

"And?"

Thor directed the word at Rogers, who raised an eyebrow before saying, "I've known Stan longer than anyone here. He wouldn't want some circus show at his funeral. He'd want a quick goodbye from his closest allies."

Ah, theatrics. Rude caricatures and embellished successes, all at once.

"Stark doesn't sound like he's plotting a circus show. He sounds like a friend in want of a decent farewell."

 _"Thank you!"_ Stark threw up his free hand and waved the empty glass at the Avengers. "See, _that's_ what the logical answer is. I've been trying to get it through from the start!"

"And all of you?" Thor asked, turning to the room. Personally, he felt that Stark was doing great, but humans had the tendency to be finicky.

Natasha spoke first, nodding as though she was trying to convince herself. "I believe good men should be honored. A large ceremony sounds alright."

Thor's lips twitched into a smile, as Tony raised his eyebrows. He turned to Clint, who shrugged.

"I barely knew the guy. I'm here for moral support."

"And Banner? I haven't seen you in months, friend. What do you think?"

Banner shrugged too, though it was a pitiful thing. "I just want to give the man what he would have wanted. I don't really wanna take that control from him. If he wanted to be quick, so do I."

"I see."

And thing was, Thor really _did_ see. He could see wanting to give the man what he wanted, and he could see wanting to speak of one's honor before the world. He had once been on both sides, and though he did not understand what made a singular mortal so reverred among these people, he knew; more so than any of his friends, how long of a maze death could be.

"Avengers."

They bristled at the name, all of them. They hadn't been the Avengers for quite a while, now - the world had seen to that. But they looked at Thor, nonetheless, guarded in their interest.

"I don't know the first thing about the man you all speak of. But I know you, my comrades and teammates, and I trust that he was important. He was brave, most likely. Funny." Thor looked over the room, listing what he loved best in the people he saw.

"Smart. Ambitious. Uncompromising. Am I right?"

Banner gave him a soft smile. Rogers sat up straighter, turning his gaze to Thor's eyes.

"In Asgard, our men lived long. Our funerals were few and far between. But they happened, and when we burned the bodies -"

He heard a few gasps at this, but really, what did they expect from Norse gods? Thor continued.

"-when we burned them, we celebrated with food and mead. The mourning wasn't allowed to last longer than several days - we celebrated, afterwards. A life well-lived, and a long-lasting legacy. That was the mark of every true Asgardian." Thor thought of Heimdall. He thought of all the times he thought Loki had left him. "Our mourning could last weeks. But we never showed sadness - we found the joy in their departure, amd shared our regrets, and orchestrated their goodbye as one. All of Asgard would rise before one of the dead, and there were always others to comfort the mourners, and elders to share tales, and friends to declare toasts and events. Their death would become their celebration, and we always dreamt of them watching us from the beyond, amd toasting with us, too."

They had been the most breathtaking of affairs, those funerals. The embers that fluttered into the wind as smoke curled and spread between the fingers of every nearby Asgardian. The strange combination of laughter and tears, peppered with hiccups and contagious in the populace. The toasts made at sunset, as the gold of the castle shone on every citizen; and the Bifrost, emerald and sapphire and ruby and saturated with light and the grief of thousands.

"That sounds beautiful." Natasha's stare seemed a little less glassy.

Thor blinked, and found tears on the floor. He cleared his throat and spoke again.

"You're all united today in the name of this man - Stan? Don't taint his memory with an argument. Celebrate the life that carried him to his death. Compromise. Mortals and Asgardians tend to share the same opinions in these matters, do they not? His leaving is your last chance at farewell. Leave the funeral with no regrets."

He waited for some sort of reply, and eventually it came from Stark - now with an empty wine glass - throwing up his hands.

"Eh, Shakespeare's right. Might as well be a team for once."

"I'd be willing to look beyond our options." Natasha nodded yet again, but this time it was sharp and concise. More decided. "Stan deserves friends that amplify the ceremony. We can only do that together.

Bruce spoke too. "That was beautiful, Thor."

Thor simply grinned, knowing he'd been to more funerals a year than most people in their lifetimes. After the first five or so, the speeches began to melt into one.

"You know what?" Stark flicked his eyes up. "You guys make the call. I'll pay. Casket, band, tuxes, whatever. No hard feelings - for real this time."

A few murmurs made their way around the room - a call for a funeral not extravagant, but not lonely, either. A soft jazz band he would have liked. A search for his still living friends.

Only Rogers had not yet spoken. The noise died as everyone noticed, and Rogers sighed, playing with his fingers.

"The Stan I knew hated staged things. I don't know if he's changed since then. But I know that whatever Tony wants to do, it won't be staged. It'll be out of respect."

"Out of love, patriot. Get it in your head."

Rogers' mouth twitched. "I say give Tony control. He's known him longest. He'll do right by Stan."

For the first time since - well, months - Stark appeared genuinely confused. He looked at Rogers for a moment, and pointed back and forth between them, as if to say _Did he really just say that?_

* * *

Thor stayed. He and the Avengers sat late into the night, drinking wine, talking, laughing; sometimes about Stan, but mostly about one another, and why Stan occupied such a special place in their lives. For Rogers, the stories went so far back they left Thor entranced and the rest reeling, as he presented jokes and pranks and army moments still unrivalled by the men of today. Stark spoke with a smile in his voice, the way Loki might have mentioned Frigga. He had memories of building Lego castles and huddling before televisions - _the only normal childhood I had,_ Stark called them. Romanoff and Banner shared work stories that were anything but boring, and he and Barton listened all the while, building a picture they sorely wished was still real.

Thor found himself wishing he had known the man. The way they spoke - Rogers laughing, Stark grinning, Romanoff and Banner trading soft smiles, and Clint joking with everyone - it felt so unlike the divided Avengers he had known for so long. They were here as one now, their jibes and banter reminiscent of lovelier days; the tension they'd harbored for so long melting like wax.

They agreed to hold it in two weeks. Closed casket. Red and blue roses, and a sketch of him rather than a picture, which Steve chose to draw. Buried in Manhattan, under the largest tree they could find. It would be extravagant, but the attendees would be few; and Stark and Rogers shook hands over it.

It was lovely, Thor thought. How a mortal, someone whose life was barely a blip in his own, inspired so much harmony and joy. His own people carried the dead with them every day, spirits heavy but unfailing.

Maybe Thor could hold funerals for them, too. For Heimdall, and the warriors, and the half of his populace that would no longer feel the warmth of the sun. Burn them with lavender and honeysuckle; in a field where the sunset would soak the air with gold, just like back at Asgard.

"Thor?"

Thor startled, and so did the entire room, but they were full of wine and they laughed as he bristled. Rogers looked at him, and Thor begrudgingly asked what the matter was.

"I just wanted to thank you. Not many people could have handled this well." He smiled, and scribbled something on the notebook in his pocket, before ripping the paper and handing it to Thor. "You're welcome to visit anytime. You or any Asgardian."

An address. Thor put it in his pocket and smiled, and raised one last glass of wine.

"It's not me you should thank, warriors. Save it for the man who was so remarkable he simply could not help but bring you together. To Stan."

"To Stan," everyone cheered, and Thor swore he could hear their hearts mending.

* * *

 **For somebody who has only seen Ragnarok, I'm quite proud of the renovations I've made to this chapter! I didn't really like the original version. It's super tricky managing Thor from Ragnarok AND Avengers in the same story.**

 **As always, please do review! I read, cherish, and reply to every last one like they're my lifeline, and it's reviews that remind me that my presence on the internet can make an impact. It's the same for other writers, too! Just a couple of sentences can really make someone's day!**

 **My final chapter will be Peter, and then I will mark this as complete. It's fitting, I think- an ending led by Stan's most beloved character. Thanks to everyone who stayed with me through this, and especially to the ultra-kind NatalieRushman! You guys have inspired me beyond belief!**

 **Love, Mariam**


	7. Peter

**And she's back! I apologize profusely for the delay - IGCSE season hit me like a truck, and what with all the time spent studying and stuff, I really had to reach for the motivation to write this. But it's finally here; the closing chapter, and I'm happy to say I rushed only in time and not in quality. Thank you so much to everyone who gave this little story as much love as I did, and thank you to anyone who finds it in the future long after Stan Lee has left us.**

 **Enjoy the finale!**

* * *

 **Peter**

Peter sat cross-legged on the bed. He still had his shoes on - _they were leaving dirt marks on his sheets, and probably a whole lot of worry for May_ \- but somewhere in him, he just couldn't bring himself to care.

The tuxedo from the funeral felt tight against his muscles. The sky poured - had started during the last five minutes of his walk back home - and though he'd seen it coming a mile away, he hadn't cared about that, either. He hadn't cared about much, this past month.

 _Have to wash the tux. Mr. Stark is taking that back._

 _Gotta go see Mrs. Lee, too. Told her I'd come._

 _Told Ned we'd go for pizza tomorrow._

Funny. He didn't even _remember_ all these plans - May did that for him; which was a shame, Peter had an impeccable memory and it was going to waste right now - but they were there, and those people needed him, and the weight of that and the weight of the wet suit and the weight of the spider suit beneath it pulled at him, until all Peter could do was sink into the pillows and cry.

He and Mr. Lee - _Stan? He always wanted me to call him Stan._ \- he and Stan were supposed to meet last Sunday. And this Sunday, and the next Sunday too, and all the Sundays after that. That was their thing - their buildings were separated by little more than a few narrow streets, and Stan usually had a Coke or coffee while Peter chose tea (Didn't need any more energy in him) and they talked and told each other stories, and Peter helped Stan with his laptop and Stan gave him advice in return.

The funeral had gone well. That was good. Peter had been the first to fumble with his invitation, and tell Karen in unsteady breathing to call Mr. Stark, and tell Mr. Stark then and there that he would go, hell, he would _plan_ the entire thing if they needed him to. But Mr. Stark smiled, and went _Slow down there, Skywalker_ , and promised him that his attendance was more than enough. He even came to his home to deliver the tuxedo, three days later, and Peter, who had been holding it all in for a month, trying to calm down Mr. Stark, trying to be nice to Mrs. Lee, trying to still stop all the bad guys, trying trying _trying,_ had broken down right there and nearly hugged him, too.

Mr. Stark buoyed him for most of the service. He forced little sandwiches in his hands, and made him laugh when the sky got too grey, and told him Stan stories Peter hadn't been alive for. There were others, as well - Peter remembered many of them from the airport, and shuddered a good many times when he shook hands with them, too. Captain America looked funny out of uniform, in a classic suit Peter only imagined would have been worn decades ago. He came with nothing but a poster-size piece of white cardboard; and it was only later, giving a eulogy that sounded more like rainwater than words, that Peter realized it wasn't a photograph stood against the coffin, but a drawing. Peter hadn't seen Captain America and Mr. Stark stand so close in, well, _years_ \- maybe that was one cool thing about the funeral after all, the Avengers were close again - and most of his day was an alternation between grief and shock.

It wasn't awful, though. It would have been quite sweet if Peter hadn't been grieving. There was a band decked head-to-toe in old-timey clothes, their specialty a soft jazz that was only partly sad. It warmed his heart, too, seeing well over fifty people; knowing that Mr. Lee wouldn't be one of those who just drifted off in the quiet. And it softened him all the more to know, _fifty people and I'm one; fifty people and the Avengers are six,_ and when everyone finally dispersed, he was crying but he was grinning, and all he could think was that that was how a funeral was supposed to make you feel, and that was okay.

 _Was_ okay. It was like scoring the Spiderman gig all those months ago but in reverse. The initial shock, where all he could do was nod as May asked; then the cheering and the whooping and _holy crap I'm working with Tony Stark, I'm gonna be an Avenger,_ and the high that still hadn't quite faded. There was shock, alright, but it wasn't cheering, it was howling; and May wasn't with him, she'd taken one look at him and told him to take as much time as he needed.

Peter didn't know how much time he needed. He didn't even know if such a measure existed. _Pathetic,_ the voice in his head spat, _Mr. Stark and Mr. Rogers and the Black Widow got to work and you can't even keep tears down_. But Peter couldn't do anything about it. He didn't want to.

So he unfastened his watch. Threw it against the wall.

And sunk into the pillow, waiting for the damp to reach his cheeks.

* * *

"Peter, honey? It's dinner time."

Peter lazily opened his eyes, unfamiliar with the darkness that greeted him. He'd stopped being night-blind months ago, days after that spider-bite had made itself part of his identity.

May's voice came - he couldn't tell from where, _that's strange, what happened to spidey sense?_ \- even softer than before. "I don't want you to talk or smile, honey. I just want you to eat."

Peter felt impossibly small. He rose stiffly, and turned to face where he thought May was standing. She switched on the lamp. The warm glow flooded the room and Peter saw her face, a little bit golden and slightly wrinkled, giving him the same look she gave the oldest patients when they went to hospital.

"What's the time?" Peter's lifeless voice shocked even him.

 _Wrong question. You're nicer than this._

May didn't seem to mind. "It's just past seven."

Oh. He'd been in bed for nearly five hours - May was looking at him expectantly, he didn't know why, it was a long nap, that was all -

 _Mrs. Lee._

" _Crap!_ I was supposed to see Mrs. Lee _hours_ ago, _shit_ \- "

May cut him off. "Peter, it's okay. I called her for you. She doesn't want you visiting if it's just going to tire you out."

"But - "

" _No,_ Peter, you're grieving. I'll return the tuxedo for you if you like, but you and Ned are having pizza tomorrow and that's it."

He made a choked sound, trying to think of an argument to counter hers. He'd barely begun speaking when she raised her hand and spoke again.

"This isn't up for debate, Pete. Later on you can do what you want. But I don't want any errands, any obligations, any _Spiderman_ in the next few days, okay?" Her eyes were hard for the first time in months, and Peter could see arguments were a lost cause. May's soft voice had a hushed intensity to it. "I want you to rest, and spend time with your friends if you like. Nothing more."

They looked at each other for a long time, May begging him with her eyes and Peter torn between saying no and saying nothing at all.

"Okay, Peter?"

No, not okay. But he trusted May, and where grief was involved, she knew more than Peter; so he nodded and whispered that it was alright.

"Can I sit with you?"

Peter nodded, and May glided across to his bed and sat down, one arm around his shoulders and the other resting on her lap.

"You know," she breathed, staring at the wall before her, "when we first lost your uncle, all I could think was _I don't want to do this anymore_."

Peter froze.

He knew that May knew, he knew that never for a minute blamed him. But _he_ blamed him, and he couldn't see any version of this conversation where he came out smiling.

Peter said nothing, and let her keep talking.

"I didn't want to say that to you, ever. Definitely not on a day like this one. But it happened to me, Peter, and it might just happen to you too, now, and that's okay."

His face felt wet. Why did it feel wet? Hadn't he cried enough?

"I couldn't think of anything except the dead. Richard, Mary, Ben, my own parents - it felt like I was drowning in them."

Peter shuddered, the tears interrupted by choked-out gasps. He understood, so well that it chafed at his bones and dug into his heart; it was scary, just how well he got it.

May's grip got tighter, more like a hug now. "You know what calmed me down?"

Peter managed to utter a hollow, "What?"

" _You,_ Pete. You were sad, too, but you kept going. You went to school, you still spoke to your friends. It made you even kinder than you already were. I don't know if you remember this - you learned how to cook, you walked to school so I wouldn't have to drive you, you cleaned around the house in the weekends, and I never asked you to do it."

Peter remembered, alright. He'd done more out of guilt than care for May, trying to convince himself the blame wasn't his. May knew, he could tell, he looked at her and she smiled at him, proud as a sunrise.

"You reminded me, Peter. There are more living than dead, always. You've got more life in you than, like, everyone at work."

Peter scoffed; the tiniest smile gracing his face. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that even though Mr. Lee died and you miss him, and I _want_ you to miss him–" She paused and removed her arm, and turned so that she faced him, "–I don't want you to ever forget that the world is enormous, and it's all, well, it's alive. You're alive. Mr. Lee isn't here, but you are, and the best thing you can do is remember him and live; do what you think he'd like. I started getting better when I started being a proper aunt again–"

"What, no! You're like the best aunt ever!"

"Don't pretend, Pete, I wasn't doing things right back then. But that's not the point. I just want you to have that epiphany earlier than I did - when things get too hard, remember that you're still breathing. And that means it gets easier, yeah?"

Peter looked at her. And smiled, wide and a little broken, but so much better than earlier. _You're still breathing._ Stan would have liked hearing that. He'd have loved May, but she always worked Sundays because it brought in extra cash, and he'd never been one to say no to her.

"He knew about Spiderman, you know."

Peter smiled as he said it, then inhaled sharply because _oh shit he knew before May did and I just told her,_ but she surprisingly didn't say a thing. Just kept looking at him and raised her eyebrows like _I thought so,_ and he smiled sheepishly back at her.

Peter had never been one to share what scared him. He'd protected Spiderman like an old heirloom, and it still felt strange talking to May about patrol every night, actually sharing what he loved and what scared him with something that wasn't Happy's unused Whatsapp number. And he still debated trusting her with everything. But then this would happen, and Peter would remember that he needed May far more than she needed him hiding things.

Stan was gone; there was no changing that. But he left a little bit of himself in all those people at the funeral, and May was right, wasn't she? They were all still alive. He still had so much more to learn about the man he visited every Sunday. He had a whole life to lead, an existence imbued with the memory of everyone he wished was still there, and adding Stan to that list would take some getting used to, but like every other weight he'd grow stronger. The month between the announcement and the funeral had dulled things, and today had been a jarring reminder. But at least he could say the worst was over, and he could carry Stan with him everywhere he went, and slowly but surely things would get better because of it. Death stole good things, but Ben had left him and here he was two years later, still hurt but now Spiderman and making the world better, so maybe that was what death was about. About taking the good but leaving that space to grow into something stronger and kinder, something to hold what was stolen and say _wouldn't you have loved to see this?_

Peter didn't know the tears would escape him, escape the Avengers, for many months to come. He didn't know he'd be sick and miss school because of it and he'd break down when he visited Mrs. Lee next Sunday. But he knew that right now, with May giving him her sad smile and gleaming eyes, and the room flooded with light he'd stopped using since the spider-bite, life without Stan seemed daunting but possible. And maybe just a little bit hopeful.

He rubbed at his eyes and looked at May. "I think dinner's gone cold, now."

May laughed. "I think the microwave's about to hate us."

She gave him a minute to change, and they met together in the hall and walked to the kitchen, and Peter, who realized May's grin hadn't changed in the last two years, smiled again.

It got better.

* * *

 **And that's it, I supposed. I wanted this chapter to be kinder than the rest, especially because Peter's a kid and that's what he needs. And I tried my best to make things hopeful without romanticizing them - I'm not sure if I managed it, and I'd love input from anyone with experience. Again, thank you for reading. And, to any Muslim readers, Ramadan Kareem!**

 **Love, Mariam**


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